


A Week Worth of Sherlolly

by Mouse9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mouse9/pseuds/Mouse9
Summary: Chapters based on the prompt set for Sherlolly Week 2017.





	1. Not as Bad as Everyone Says

She stood in front of her open locker door, staring hard at her reflection in the small mirror affixed to the inside of the door. 

“You can do this.”  She whispered the mantra, willing herself to believe it.  The problem was, she’d been whispering the same mantra to herself for the last three days following her spectacular tumble on her first day. 

To be fair, she had not let the kidneys hit the floor, the organs doing nothing more than tipping slightly from the stainless-steel bowl they’d been placed in and dripping a little blood on her brand new lab coat.   It was an amazing catch, to be honest.  In fact, a couple of the dozen people who had been in the morgue when she’d tripped over…whatever she’d tripped over that had caused her to take the tumble had even said so…after they stopped laughing.  The problem was, she went back to the morgue alone after it had emptied and scoured the entire floor for the loose stone or step she had tripped over- because it had to be something significant for her to trip over, it had caught her foot. She refused to believe that one of the other new registrars had actually tripped her.  While she was assisting the head of the pathology department.  At his offer.  Nobody could be that cruel, therefore there had to be a loose stone or tile or something in the morgue.  She never found one. 

Days two and three had fared no better.  The head pathologist, who’d been in the room during her fall, had written her off as a disaster and had written her suggestions and observations off as ramblings of someone who clearly couldn’t understand what she was talking about.  She was spoken over and outright dismissed more times than she could count, once to the point of near tears.  She refused, however, to let anyone see her cry.  She was a doctor, no matter how young she was compared to everyone else here, she earned her title and this position at Barts.  The teaching hospital had always been her goal; to learn, to experiment with new techniques, to teach.  She wasn’t going to let a shite first day nor the possibility of a couple of jealous technicians or registrars run her off.

Hence, the reason for her before shift mantra.

The door to the locker room slammed open and she jumped, almost hitting her head on the door to her locker.  She went still as she heard the angry voices of two of the female techs that had been hired with her talking angrily about something. 

“…won’t let anyone talk to me that way, I don’t give a toss how sexy he is.  I got this position fair and I’m not about to have some spoiled posh arse without a title to tell me what he thinks my job is.”    The locker door on the other side of hers slammed open. 

“He was gorgeous though,” the second woman said. 

“Well it wasn’t you he verbally tore into, now was it?”  the first woman snapped.  Molly took that moment to quietly close her locker door and spin the lock before grabbing her lab coat.  As she crept out of the locker room she heard the first woman’s parting comments to her friend.  “The way he’s running through techs means that eventually he’s going to fall in the path of that bland walking disaster and I would kill to be in the room when he verbally eviscerates her.”

Blinking back hot tears, she tugged on her lab coat, took a deep breath and headed towards the lab.  She hadn’t broken down following Dr. Armistead’s cruel comments, she would be damned if she’d break for anyone else.

 

* * *

 

 

She’d been called to the morgue to assist with an autopsy; she and Hardwick-a thirty-something pathologist who make it clear to everyone that pathology had been his second choice of given professions.  He was also one of Dr. Armistead’s favorites.

“Ah Hooper, you’re finally here.”  The white-haired man sneered as she stepped into the autopsy room.  “Just in time to watch Dr. Hardwick perform this autopsy.  Do try not to knock anything over this time.”

She blushed, fighting down her anger as Hardwick smirked.    As he began to cut into the body, she circled the table, staying out of the eyesight of both men as she tried to study the body.  From the couple of clues she’d spotted on the exterior of the body, she already knew the Hardwick’s diagnosis was wrong.  He liked to give a diagnosis and then cut into the body looking for the things that would substantiate his hypothesis.

He’d just flipped back the skin of the Y incision when the doors were flung open and a tall man strode in, coat billowing out behind him.  Behind him was Doctor Stamford, the Head of the Pathology department and a silver haired Inspector.

Immediately Doctor Armistead was incensed.  “I refuse to have that man in my theatre!”  he bellowed.

“Calm yourself Doctor Armistead, this is a Yard matter.”  Doctor Stamford said.  “Let him look.”

Molly could do nothing but stare at the taller man in the great coat.  He towered over everyone in the room, as thin as he was tall with almost alabaster skin make even more white by the harsh lights of the operating theater and his mass of black curly hair.  He was a Davidian statue come to life and she had to remind herself to shut her mouth before somebody said something to her about it.  The Inspector stepped around the all man. 

“Just let him look, this man might be connected with an ongoing investigation.”

“What?  Murder?”  Hardwick scoffed.  “This man drown, simple as that.  Any idiot can see that.”

Molly tightened her lips, not saying a word.  It wasn’t a simple drowning, had Hardwick just looked instead of assuming he would’ve seen it.  Apparently the mysterious man saw it as well.  He glanced back at the Inspector with a smirk.  “Just when I thought I couldn’t find anyone more stupid than Anderson.”  Before the Inspector could answer that, the man was striding towards the body. 

“Leave.  Both of you.  Leave now.  Stop ruining my murder victim with your amateurish hack job and your infantile assumptions.  I can feel my brain cells dying just breathing the same air you’re inhabiting at this moment."

Molly bit back a giggle.  This had to be the man the two women were complaining about yesterday; gorgeous, posh, and verbally eviscerating anyone in his path.  Her spine straightened as she realized that any minute now his attention would be on her and she would receive the same treatment. 

Right now, he seemed happy enough ignoring a furious Armistead and Hardwick, choosing instead to examine the body. 

“I’ll let you get back to it when he’s finished Doctor Armistead.  But for now, if you and Doctor Hardwick could just step outside and take a break.”

The white-haired doctor stared at Doctor Stamford clearly wanting to say something, but holding his tongue.  Spinning around, he set his sights on her. 

“Hooper, you too.”  He snapped.  “Try not to trip on your feet on the way out.”

“Actually,” Dr. Stamford said.  “I’d like Dr. Hooper to remain with us.  Just for a minute.”

Hardwick snorted.  “It’s your funeral.”

“Stamford, why haven’t they left yet?”  the man asked, his full attention on the body.  Armistead and Hardwick stormed out, the doors slamming shut behind them.  The man smirked as the Inspector sighed. 

“Could you try not to piss anyone else off today?”

“Doubtful.  Stop trying to make me work with idiots.  Stamford, your men are idiots.  Surely you have to have at least one competent person here other than yourself.”  He glanced up as he spoke, his eyes meeting hers over the table and her heart skipped a beat.  Eyes as blue as the deepest part of the ocean bore into her, studying her before he straightened. 

“This is Doctor Molly Hooper,” Dr. Stamford said by way of introduction.   “Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

She glanced towards Lestrade, giving him a small smile before turning back to the man Stamford called Holmes.  The man’s gaze flicked towards Stamford. 

“Isn’t this the one your idiot man said tripped over her own feet?”

“Give her a chance Holmes.”

With a great sigh, he took a step away from the body and with a wave towards the body said, “Well?  Is your diagnosis death by drowning also?”

She stepped forward, biting her lip as she stared at the body. 

“No.”  she finally answered.  “You can tell from the few marks on the body that this man was either dead or unconscious before he fell into the water.  I’d bet unconscious, but I’d have to do a full autopsy on the body before I could give you a definite answer.”

“How long will that take?” 

“About an hour?”

“You have twenty minutes.” 

Both men’s voice rose in protest but Holmes had already pulled his phone from his pocket and wandered towards a work bench, fingers typing away madly on the keys.  Molly looked to Dr. Stamford before getting the protective gear and suiting up for the autopsy.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t her best work and that ate at her.  But it was good enough for a preliminary cause of death which should satisfy the man still leaning against the work bench texting.  As if he knew she was finished, he slid his phone back into his pocket and walked towards her. 

“Well?”

“He wasn’t dead when he hit the water but he was dying.”  She lifted the body slightly and pointed towards a small hole in the lower side of the body, barely noticeable.  Both Lestrade and Dr. Stamford approached the table, looking at the corpse.  “Someone shoved a thin metal rod into his side, puncturing his stomach and the nerves in the L4 vertebrae.  I can’t tell you what type of metal without a full spectral analysis but it had to be really strong and incredibly sharp in order to inflict the damage it did with minimal notice.”  Lowering the body back down onto the table she shoved her hands back into the open body cavity and lifted up the stomach  so the men could see the huge tear in the lining..  “See?  The injury is consistent with the same section of the body and whatever instrument it was literally popped his stomach like a balloon.  There’s also a small section where the spinal nerves are separated from the column.  They’re not supposed to do that.”

Lestrade stepped back looking a little green.  Stamford was nodding at her assessment, eyes still on the inside of the body and Holmes…

He stood next to her, close enough that she could hear him breathing and smell his aftershave; something woodsy and old. 

“What’s that?”  His now gloved finger pointed towards a glimmer of something on the lining of the stomach.   She frowned. 

“Wha-oh!”  She saw it now, barely a fleck.  Something she couldn’t get to in her current position.  She’d have to cut out the stomach and hope she didn’t lose it in the process.    Without asking, he produced a scalpel and a test slide, carefully and methodically scraping the fleck from the lining and putting it on the slide.  She slid the stomach back into its place and pulled her hands from the body.  He handed her the slide. 

“Test this and text me the results.” 

She carefully took the slide from him.  “Um…”  she hedged, looking to Dr. Stamford.  He nodded. 

“It’s fine.  He works with the Yard on certain cases.”

“Okay.  Fine.  But this isn’t my body.”  She placed the slide onto the closest metal table before peeling her gloves off and tossing them into the closest hazardous waste bin.  “Shouldn’t Drs Armstead and Hardwick finish up on this?”

The man- Sherlock- gave her a look.  “What did you say your name was again?”

“Um…Molly.  Doctor Molly Hooper.”

“Well Dr. Molly Hooper,” he drawled out her name slowly, sending chills up her spine.  “I don’t want either of those idiots touching this body.  You finish the autopsy, do the test and text me the results.”  He looked at Stamford, seemingly dismissing her.  “I mean it Stamford, I’d rather have Anderson working on my corpse than those two excuses for professionals and I don’t want Anderson anywhere near my corpse.  Number?”

Molly, who’d put on fresh gloves to seal up the sample suddenly noticed the room got quiet.  She looked up, blushing as three pair of eyes stared at her. 

“Sorry?”

Sherlock waved his mobile at her.  “Phone. Unless you magically know my mobile number which would mean you either deduced it out of the seemingly billions and billions of sequences or you’ve been stalking me which I also think is impossible as I would’ve notice by now and Lestrade here would need to take you in for questioning, you do not have my mobile so I will obviously need yours so I can text you mine.”

It was all said so fast that it took her almost a second to process what he’d just rambled off.  She blinked once and rattled off her mobile number.  He typed it in and slid his phone back into his pocket. 

“End of the day Hooper!”  he called out as he left the room almost as dramatically as he appeared.  Molly blinked again, a half-smile creeping on her face. 

“Well,” Stamford said.  “That’s not usually the look I usually see after someone encounters Sherlock Holmes.”

She looked over at her superior. 

“Who is he?”

“Sherlock Holmes, as I’ve said.  He’s a consulting detective, only one in existence, if you ask him.  And if I’m not mistaken, possibly your newest problem.”

Molly looked back at the now closed doors, half heard Stamford’s comments about telling Armstead and Hardwick about the newest developments regarding the body.  She looked back at the body and stepped back to it to finish her autopsy. 

Sherlock Holmes. 

She smiled. 

Hopefully she’d see more of him in the future.

 

 


	2. Calling in a Marker

“Sherlock Holmes, you owe me!”

The Detective in question froze in mid position over the microscope where he was studying…something.  He turned his head just enough to look at her with a hint of confusion and guilt.  The door swung shut behind her as she stormed through the empty lab.  It was late so she was the only one-technically-who was on shift.

“I think you’ll find that I have access to the labs whenever I need it,” he answered, turning his attention back to the microscope.  “Although you’ve let me have the run of it for years now, so I’m not sure why you’re suddenly trying to be a stickler for the rules.”

“I’m not talking about the lab you great idiot,” she snapped.  “Of course I know you have the run of it, it isn’t as if I could stop you even if I wanted to.”  She slammed her hands onto the metal table and he shifted his gaze towards her again.

“No, what I’m talking about is the Director’s Banquet this Thursday.  The one I had a date for until you scared him off.”

He straightened with a frown, his attention fully on her now.  “Which one?”

She sighed heavily.  “You know it’s scary when you aren’t sure which one of my dates you’ve scared off. I’m talking about Jim.  He agreed to accompany me to this before…”  she waved her hand as if to say  _you know._

“Molly, you do realize he is a criminal mastermind who was using you to get to me.”

“He was a criminal mastermind who had agreed to go to the Director’s Banquet with me because he felt bad I didn’t have a date.”

“I hardly doubt he would’ve actually taken you.”

“I have no doubt that he would have had you not called him gay and forced him to move up his timetable.”

He blinked speechless for once.  His mouth opened and shut several times before he actually spoke. 

“Molly Hooper, you mean to tell me that you honestly believe it’s my fault that James Moriarty, the self-proclaimed Napoleon of crime, the consulting criminal, isn’t here to take you to a work function?” He sounded gob smacked that she would even suggest it.  Molly straightened her spine and folded her arms across her chest, glaring at him. 

“Well, we’ll never know because you ran him off.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“You owe me Holmes.  I have no date to this thing now.  I can’t go without a date.”

“Well I’m not going with you.  I’m busy.”

“You’re in between cases!”

“You never know when something might pop up.”

He leaned back on the stool as what sounded like a low growl came from Molly. 

“Fine.  I’ll just ask…Greg or something.”

“Greg?  Who’s Greg?”

“Lestrade.  Or maybe I’ll phone your brother.  I’m sure he’d be delighted to go so I would owe him at a later date.”

“What?  No!  I abhor the idea of you owing Mycroft anything. Fine.”  He almost pouted.  “What time is this thing?”

“Promptly at seven.  Black tie.  Dinner to be served.”

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

She smiled, satisfied.  “Thank you Sherlock.”

He merely snorted in derision as he went back to his study.

 

* * *

 

Thursday evening at exactly six pm, he was in front of her flat in a borrowed car from his brother.  It was fine for him to ask things of Mycroft; they had a delicate balance of markers to be called in that borrowing one car wouldn’t tip the scales in any one way.  It was absolutely not fine for Molly to owe Mycroft anything. 

The door to her building opened and she stepped out.  Dressed in a floor length sheath gown of black, her hair in an updo and a crème wrap, she looked beautiful. 

He almost did a double take as she walked towards him and the car, a delighted smile on her face. 

“I wasn’t expecting a car.”

“It’s a black-tie affair, we couldn’t have arrived in a taxi.”

“I would’ve.”  She answered taking his proffered hand and getting into the car. He slid in after her and the car smoothly drove off once the door had shut. 

“I believe now is a good time to begin negotiations.”  He stated.  She gave him a wary look. 

“You owe me, remember?”

“Ah, but you said that was for the pleasure of me as your date to this event.  The car was a small bonus.”  He grinned, showing his teeth.  “You never said I had to be nice to people.”

She sighed, leaning back against the cool leather of the seat.  “One day, I’ll get you to agree to something without all the infernal negotiations for every little bit.   Fine, what are your demands.”

By the time they reached the banquet hall, they’d bargained for a half dozen toes, three fingers and a whole liver in exchange for him being polite throughout dinner and generally keeping any observations he needed to make between them.  Like a light switch, the minute they stepped out of the car Sherlock Holmes was polite and cordial, smiling and shaking hands with her bosses and her bosses bosses.  Dr. Mike Stamford, who was just inside with his wife, merely raised an eyebrow and gave Molly a telling look as he introduced Sherlock to his wife. 

She smiled at the looks some of the wives were giving her as they all milled around the reception area waiting to go in for dinner, thankful that she’d managed to talk him into coming with her.  Truth be told, a few body parts was well worth the price of him being a cordial date.

“There’s our cue,” Dr. Stamford stated as the doors to the dining area were opened.  “If you don’t find us too objectionable, we’d be happy to share a table with you.” 

Sherlock smiled, placing a hand lightly on the small of Molly’s back to guide her in front of him in the line.  “I think I’d find you the least objectionable, Stamford.” 

Molly flinched slightly, looking up at him in confusion and feeling the warmth of his hand through the silk of her dress.   He didn’t move his hand until they reached their table and then she shot him another confused look when he held her chair for her. 

“What’s wrong?”  he asked after he was seated next to her. 

“You’re being nice.  Why are you being nice?”

“We negotiated for this, remember?”

“No.  We negotiated for you to be polite to everyone else.”

He gave her a look as if to say she was being ridiculous.  “Molly, part of our agreement was that I was to be your date.  What kind of date would I be if I ignored you throughout the entire date?”

“Pretty much like some of my other dates,” she muttered, and then, “Hang on, what do you mean throughout the entire date?”

“Molly, do keep up.  We’re dressed up, at an event involving dinner and what seems to be some sort of after dinner entertainment and I’m expected to be nice to everyone else, what else would you call this?”

Molly was in shock.  She expected a bit more feet dragging and a petulant Sherlock she would have to hope just smiled pleasantly and kept his opinions between them. She was not at all expecting him to consider this a date.  He didn’t date; he didn’t do dates or relationships or any sort of romantic entanglement.  She couldn’t help the small smile on her face at the realization. 

“So,” Mike asked after their plates were set in front of them.  “What is this going to cost us?”  He waved his fork between the two of them.  Molly blushed slightly, knowing exactly what it was going to cost.  Sherlock smiled smoothly. 

“I owed her this time, she finally collected.”

Mrs. Stamford smiled at the two of them.  “You two are just adorable.”  She cooed and Molly winced.  “How long have you two been dating?”

Mike’s knife froze in mid cut of his salmon and Molly blanched.  “Oh it’s not…I mean we’re…”

“Actually, this is our first date.” 

Molly and Mike both stared at Sherlock who was calmly buttering a roll.  Mrs. Stamford beamed. 

“This must be daunting, coming to an event such as this for your first date.”

“Not at all.  I work with your husband and Molly on an almost every day basis.   Molly needed a date, she asked me, I said yes.  All in all, this has been much less tedious than I expected.”

Mike looked to Molly as if to ask  _what the hell?_  Molly merely shrugged helplessly.  The tapping of a microphone interrupted them as one of the executives of NHS stepped up and spoke into the microphone. 

“Can you hear me?”

“It seems I spoke too soon.”  Sherlock remarked dryly.  Molly mentally face palmed herself but Mrs. Stamford giggled and leaned towards him as if to divulge a secret. 

“I always hate this part of the dinner,” she whispered.  “They trap you with food so you’re forced to listen to their self-congratulatory speeches regarding how much they’ve saved this year.  It’s boring.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at finding a kindred spirit.  Molly and Mike just looked at each other in worry.

* * *

 

During the speeches, Sherlock and Mrs. Stamford were making quiet comments between themselves about the speeches, the suits, the bad toupee on one of the executive’s head.  This was what Molly was used to; being ignored by Sherlock whenever he found something new and interesting to catch his attention.  Oddly enough, Mrs. Stamford was that new and interesting thing.

After an hour the speeches wrapped up, the dinner plates were taken away and tables not used were taken away.  People began standing up and milling about again, talking to colleagues, speaking with the executives.  Molly remained at her table watching the proceedings, playing with the stem of her wineglass.  She hated these things.  In fact, now that dinner and the speeches was over there really wasn’t any reason for her to stick around.  She’d always felt awkward at these things; she didn’t know half these people, being situated in the basement and cutting up cadavers didn’t put her department high on the list of walk through departments for the higher ups.  She hated kissing up, she wasn’t comfortable with it and she preferred to let her work speak for her.  Normally she could probably slip out without anyone being any wiser but it seems her “date” was on the arm of Mrs. Stamford and the two were discussing something quietly, a chuckle or a laugh erupting from either of them occasionally. 

Sighing, she drained her glass.  She could leave on her own, but she didn’t want to be rude.  After all, she was the one who used her favor to get him to attend this.  She should’ve known he’d spend the evening ignoring her. 

So caught up in her own thoughts was she that she didn’t hear the orchestra the event had hired begin to play, nor Sherlock approach her until he spoke. 

“Care to dance?”

She blinked up at him, seeing his outstretched hand and a small smile on his lips. 

“Dance?”

“It’s a thing one usually does on a rather large floor with a musical accompanist.”  He shook his hand at her.  “I haven’t danced in a good while.”

“You…dance?”

“I do enjoy a good waltz.”

Biting her lip, she looked at his outstretched hand another moment before hesitantly taking it and allowing him to help her stand. 

“I’m sure Mrs. Stamford would have loved to dance.”  She said as he led her to the dance floor.  She caught sight of several women and a couple of men watching them and talking behind their hands and she felt her face flush. 

“Ellie came with her husband whom, I believe, she is trying to convince to dance.”  An arm wrapped around her waist, his hand warm on her lower back.  His other hand took hers and held it.  “Besides, I came here with you, why would I dance with anyone else?”

Her blush came back.  “I should warn you, I’m not very good.”

“But I am.  Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

With that, he began to move.  Her hand rested on his shoulder, curling around his suitcoat tentatively.  She was so much shorter than he was, yet it didn’t matter.  He maneuvered her around the floor in sweeping arcs effortlessly and soon she found herself smiling, her eyes alight.  He returned her smile, moving her into a turn when someone screamed.  He spun her carefully towards the scream before letting her go. 

One of the woman stumbled out onto the dance floor. 

“There’s been…”  she stammered.  “He’s dead.”  Then she fell into a dead faint.  Gasps could be heard and suddenly Sherlock grabbed her hand and hurried towards the end of the floor in the direction the woman had come from.  Molly had no choice but to come along. 

In the back hallway was a young man, apparently dead, foam still coming from his lips.

Molly turned around scanning the crowd until she spotted Mike and his wife pushing through the crowd. 

“Call Lestrade!”  she called out to her boss.  “Tell him we need ambulance!” 

Dr. Stamford nodded, pulling out his mobile and dialing as she turned back to Sherlock.  He was on his knees, magnifying glass out, looking at the body. 

“Anderson will have a fit if you touch the body.”  She said. 

“Anderson can hang.”  He replied.  “Come look at this.”

Lamenting the cleaning bill for getting bodily fluids out of this dress, she looked up at one of the other waiters.  “Do you have a pair of latex gloves?  I’m going to need a pair.”

The man nodded and ran off as Molly carefully moved her dress so she was able to kneel on the carpet to examine the body. 

“It’s poison, that part is obvious.”  She said quietly, her voice low enough so only he could hear her.  “But who would want to poison a waiter?”

“I don’t know yet, but the fun I’m going to have trying to figure it out.”  He looked at her, delight and excitement in his expression as the waiter came back with two pairs of gloves.  She took them with a nod of thanks and handed him a pair.  He took them from her with a quick kiss to her temple. 

“Best date ever. If there’s a murder during all of our dates, Molly Hooper, we’re going to have to go out more often.”

He happily went back to examining the body leaving her to try to figure out what he’d just said.  Finally, she smiled as she slipped on the gloves so she could touch the body.

As first dates went, this was undeniably Sherlock Holmes’ worthy.

 

 


	3. Kiss My Goodbye

Shutting the door to her flat, she leaned against the hard wood and let out a deep sigh.

Today had been an emotional wringer.  To watching Sherlock plummet past her window, which was heart stopping enough, to having wheeled into the morgue, to touch cold skin long enough to pull the squash ball from under his arm ignoring her own chills as she did this, her body if not her mind reacting to the idea of him actually being dead. 

Then it was merely a waiting game.  It was disconcerting seeing him lying on the metal table looking pale and cold as death.    She had the doors to the morgue locked but even with precautions seeing a body suddenly sit up on her slap gasping breath made her jump and stifle a scream.

He was disoriented, the medication given to him to stimulate death finally wearing off.  She bullied him out of his Belstaff and suit and into the track suit and hoodie she’d hidden there earlier.  He didn’t complain, merely complied with her hurried requests without a word.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket as she was bundling up his clothes in a hazardous waste bag, letting her know that the car was downstairs waiting for them and everything had been cleared for them to leave. 

She helped him out of the hospital- a friend helping her sick friend- through the back entrance and into a nondescript car in the alley.  Fromt here it was a quick drive to her flat where he would stay until early the next morning when Mycroft would ferry him out of London.

Which is where they were now.

She flipped the locks to her door and dropped her bag and the backpack she’d been carried onto the floor.   Then she looked at the figure sitting silent and hunched on her sofa.  Biting her lip, she walked past him to her bedroom, picked up a quilt and walked back into the living room. 

Shaking it out she laid it across her shoulders before coming around the sofa to sit next to him. 

He was still so cold.  She could see him shivering although she wasn’t sure that wasn’t from the shock.  The man had just faked his death, was legally-according to all of England and the world- dead.

“Would you like some tea?”  she asked.  “I can make some.”

She shook his head silently.  He hadn’t spoken at all today.  Hesitating a moment, she reached out and touched his cold hand. 

“Is there anything I can do?”

Another shake. 

He looked lost, despondent, not at all the way she was used to seeing him.  This was Sherlock Holmes, unbound.  

Mind made up, she reached out to him, tugging the quilt and him towards her.  Her gentle tugging brought him out of himself enough to shoot a look at her.

“Shhhh, just relax.  You need to rest.”  She soothed, pulling him to her.  He went without fuss, curling his feet on the sofa and finally resting his head on the crook of her shoulder.  She adjusted so they both were comfortable, tucking the quilt around them both.  It wasn’t the most ideal arrangement- she wasn’t sure she could get him to the bed- but it worked for the moment.

She hummed softly under her breath, stroking his hair.  After a while she felt him relax against her, his breathing even out, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding onto her tightly, like a lifeline or a favorite stuffed toy as a child.  Eventually he fell asleep, wrapped around her. 

Comforted by the sound of his steady breathy and the warmth of his body and the quilt, she finally succumbed to sleep herself.

 

* * *

 

It was still dark when she awoke with a start.  Sherlock was no longer on the couch. 

Heart pounding, she stood up and hurried towards her room.  Her bedroom door opened and Sherlock stepped out dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a hoodie over that.  His hair was still damp from the shower he must’ve taken.

“How are you feeling?  Do you want something to eat?”

He gave her a small smile.  “Some coffee and toast could be nice, thank you.”

It was a relief to hear his voice again.

Hurrying into the kitchen, knowing their time was running short, she brewed some coffee and make toast, spooning out some fruit as an afterthought.  She sat across the table from him as he ate, her own mug of coffee in her hands. 

The phone sitting between them on the table buzzed, signaling that Mycroft was in front of her flat.  Sherlock finished up the last of his coffee and stood. Up. 

She followed him, handing him the backpack.

“Please.  Be careful.”  She swallowed back her tears, the lump in her throat, pushing away the clawing terror in her chest.  “Just…be safe and come back.”

He nodded.  He put down the backpack and reached out to her, pulling her towards him. 

“Thank you Molly Hooper.  For everything.”

She wasn’t expecting anything, not the hug she thought he was going to bestow on her, which, in her mind, explained why she didn’t realize he was going to kiss her until his mouth was actually on hers, the pressure firm, insistent, melancholy.

It was this last thought that moved her finally.  With a muffled sob, she held onto him, putting everything she could never say into that kiss; fear, love, sorrow, the knowledge that she knew he was saying goodbye to her the only way he could think to do.

She kept her eyes closed for a moment after his lips left hers, committing the memory of the kiss; the feel of his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath, the taste of coffee, how he held her; gently, carefully, like she was important.  Knowing this would be the only time she’d ever have anything like this again.

Finally, she opened her eyes and met his gaze; resigned, a hint of sadness.   She smiled at him, pushing back her own sadness for one moment more.

“You’re going to come back to us,” she insisted.  “I won’t accept goodbye, this is a see you later.”

Reaching up, she placed a kiss on his cheek.  He was smiling as she pulled away.

“Okay.  Thank I’ll see you later Molly Hooper.”

He opened the door, snagged the backpack and was gone.  She closed and locked the door behind him. 

Only then did she allow the tears she’d been holding back to fall. 

Her first everything with him.  First time he slept with her overnight, her first kiss with Sherlock.  Her first real kiss- not on the cheek or on the forehead.  A kiss, real and true. 

And it had been a kiss goodbye.


	4. Lazy Sunday

It was a rainy fall afternoon.  The kind of day that makes people just want to curl up under a blanket with the windows open and sleep all day.

Which was exactly happening at 221B Baker Street this particular Sunday afternoon. 

The windows in the living room were open, the curtains blowing gently in the chilly autumn breeze, the soft pattering of rain against brick creating a lulling pattern.  Inside the flat was quiet, the only sound was the rain outside and the gentle breathing inside.  On the couch, Molly lay curled between the back of the couch and Sherlock’s warm body, a brown and red tartan blanket covering them.  He had one arm under her neck and one over her shoulder, buried in her hair and her free hand was tucked around his body, curled against his back.  In sleep, their faces were buried against each other, a breath away from the other’s lips.  They’d been that way most of the afternoon, what originally was supposed to be merely a quiet afternoon at his place sussing out this newest aspect to their already unusual relationship turning into an afternoon long nap.

For once, Sherlock’s mind was quiet; no running cases, no information overwhelming his synapsis, nothing.  The rain was the first thing in hours to enter his consciousness and he lazily opened his eyes, smiling at the still sleeping image of Molly curled so closely next to him.  He didn’t bother to move, didn’t feel as if he had to get up and move, he just watched her sleep, his eyes moving over her face and her loose hair, tickling his fingers.  Her eyes were still closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks and her lips were only slightly parted, small puffs of air as she exhaled moving between them.   She was radiant.  She was beautiful.  And finally she was all his.

His fingers moved through strands of her hair of their own violation and he watched as her lips twitched upward.  This close to her, he would only have to merely move his head in just a certain way for their lips to brush and for once, he didn’t try to fight the urge, merely gave into it. 

His lips brushed past hers lightly, once, twice. He could hear the minute noise in her sigh after the second brushing kiss, her fingers, curled against his side, moving against the soft material of the tee shirt he wore, nails scratching lightly against him causing him to shiver. 

He watched her eyelids flutter open on the third brushing kiss, her lips turn upward more in a smile.  With a small turn of her head, she pressed their lips firmly together; no more lightly brushing kisses, now a more languid kiss, not leading towards any one action, more of a comfortableness between the two. 

His fingers tightened in her hair, keeping her head close to his.  He could feel her fingers digging into his side as if to pull him even closer.

He loved her.  He’d always been worried about sentiment, that it would distract him, slow him down, tangle him up.  It was pointless when his mind could be used from much greater things.  But on this couch, at this moment, he wasn’t distracted, he wasn’t tangled.  If anything, Molly made him better, challenged him, made him think in ways he’d never used his mind before their paths had crossed.  She made him a better man.  She made him the man he never thought he’d be.  She was his drug, his path, his salvation.

Their mouths parted as her gaze flicked up to meet his. 

“What time is it?” she asked, her voice soft and low. 

“Don’t know.” Was his answer.  He didn’t move to find out, he found he was much too comfortable where he was.  “Do you want to move?”

“No.  I perfectly comfortable where I am right now.”  He watched her as she closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep, sleepy breath before opening them again.  “I suppose we’ll have to get up sometime and eat something.  Or get up anyway, or we’ll never get any sleep tonight.  While the rain is lovely for lazy Sundays, sometime tonight I’ll have to trudge home in this mess.”

“Stay here.  Tonight.”  The words left his mouth before he even knew he was going to say them.  The moment they were free, he knew it’s what he wanted.  “Don’t go home, stay.”

Her gaze was searching.  “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Her smile lit up her face.  “All right.”  She giggled.  “This will be our first sleepover, you know.”

The comment made him frown.  “We’ve slept over.”

“That was my flat.  This is my first sleepover here.”  She buried her face, seeking the warmth of his neck.  Her nose brushed against his ear and he shivered, his fingers tightening in her hair in response. 

“Just a bit longer,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his neck.  He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer to him. 

“As long as you want.”  He agreed.

He felt her smile against his skin and he dropped a light kiss against her temple. 

“I cherish you Molly Hooper.”  He whispered against her hair.  Her fingers tightened against his side. 

“I adore you too Sherlock Holmes,” he heard her say.

Smiling, he closed his eyes again and let the feel of her against him lull him back to sleep.


	5. A Differing of Deductions

Mary Watson stood in the darkened underground of the Morgue, eyes, alight with excitement as she watched the two people in suits face off against each other across a dead body.  In the beginning, she’d heard about the tension between the famous Sherlock Holmes and the equally famous Dr. Martin Hooper, how they begrudgingly worked with each other but not without some level of disdain on both parts.  Her darling husband had mentioned times when they would almost snarl at each other but never with any heat. 

That, of course, was before the case of the Abominable Bride and Sherlock’s subsequent discovery of Doctor Hooper’s true secret.  A secret they had all sworn to keep. 

It did not, however, stop the sniping at each other in the Morgue. But never, according to her husband, had they ever had such an argument such as the one they were currently engaged in.  Mary was thrilled she was able to be in attendance for their first real fight.  Her gaze bounced between the two and she could barely contain her grin.  For she too knew a secret.

“Anderson get out!”  the raspy voice of Dr. Hooper bellowed and the morgue assistant, with a baleful look at the both of them, scurried out of the morgue, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.  Beside her, John tugged gently at her hand. 

“Perhaps we should also leave, my dear.  This type of discussion shouldn’t be held in front of a lady.”

He flinched almost as the words leave his mouth as both Mary and Hooper turn their cold gazes on him.  On the other side of the body, Sherlock merely smirked.  Hooper’s cold gaze shoots back to him almost immediately as if knowing what is going through the Detective’s mind at that moment. 

“Not a chance in hell, my love.”  Mary retorts.  “Despite the fact that there is no polite company in this room, I am not leaving the entertainment that is their first real argument.”

“Oh for Christ sake!”  Sherlock exclaimed, his gaze still fixed on Dr. Hooper.  “Will you just concede that I am correct and we can continue?”

“I will not!” Dr. Hooper retorted angrily.  “Because you are not right and I am going to take great pleasure in proving you wrong ,Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock snorted.  “John, a second opinion, if you please?”

Reluctantly, John walked towards them, gaze darting between the two.  “I don’t think you need me.  The good Doctor is more than capable to discover cause of death.”

“Not when the good Doctor is under the mistaken impression that they are right.”   He flipped back the sheet on the body and John averted his eyes away from the naked corpse of the woman that had washed up from the Thames earlier that day.  To her credit, even Mary averted her eyes.  She’d seen death before, of course she had, she worked for the Crown.  But seeing the bloated aftermath of such a senseless crime sickened her.  Neither Sherlock nor Hooper had flinched when he flipped back the sheet.  They’d both already seen their fill of the corpse, which, of course, was the reason for the argument.  They had differing causes of death.

Finally John looked upon the body on the table, his eyes glancing quickly around the body, not lingering too long on any…unseemly parts, before looking up at Sherlock. 

“She’s been in the river for far too long, the body’s much too bloated to determine true cause of death.”

His answer received two snorts of derision. 

“Good God man, look at the body.”  Sherlock snapped. 

“Perhaps if you don’t look upon it as once being a living creature.  After all, it’s merely transport.”  The final words were all but spat in Sherlock’s direction.  John looked again, this time with a clinical eye.

“Perhaps Doctor Hooper,” he scoffed as he studied the body more thoroughly.  “I am better able to remember that this was indeed a living creature at one time, no matter how pathetic she may have ended up.”  

“Believe me Doctor Watson,” Hooper hissed.  “I am well aware of the plight of this poor woman before she ended up on my slab.  I understand all too well the life she lived.  Hence the reason I am arguing this point.”

“Well, she was cut.”  He ignored Hooper’s retort.  He pointed towards the woman’s throat.  “Throat sliced.  Probably a client who didn’t want to pay her price or wanted to get a bit without paying. Sad, but it happens quiet often.”  He stepped back nodding towards Holmes.  “I doubt Lestrade is going to look into the murder of a dead prostitute.”

“The privilege of being a man.”  Hooper sneered. 

“Almost right Watson, except that this wasn’t a prostitute.  She was respectable.”

“You are both so close to being tossed right out of my morgue.”  Hooper snapped.  Sherlock glanced at her. 

“Kindly cease taking my words out of context.  I work daily with the prostitutes and the homeless of the London streets, I am very aware of their worth.  When I say respectable, I merely imply that by societies standards she was of comfortable means.”

“What?  Who would dare?”  John asked in shock.  Dr. Hooper turned a long suffering look towards a grinning Mary.

“Mrs. Watson, kindly look to your husband.”  John looked up in shock and outrage. 

“Now see here!”  Mary merely grinned wider.

“Darling, I haven’t been able to see to him since we married.  I am afraid he’s his own blundering fool at times.  A trait that seems to come out more when he’s around Mr. Holmes.”

Hooper shared a knowing grin with Mary while John sputtered and Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. 

“Then who is this, Holmes?”  John asked.  He decided it was just easier not to engage with either of them anymore and focus on the case at hand.

Sherlock waved towards the body.  “The crudely chopped hair and ragged nails indicates that the murderer wanted the Yard to come to the same conclusion you did, that this was merely a prostitute in the wrong place at the wrong time. Until I gather more evidence, I’m loathe to make any assumptions.”

John gave him a look.  “When has that ever stopped you.”

Mary stepped forward, curious as to what the fuss was about.  She and John had walked in during the middle of the shouting match, well, shouting on Hooper’s part, Holmes was his usual unflappable obnoxious self. 

“Getting back to the point of the argument…”  she hinted. 

“The argument was Holmes here was insistent that he knew why this woman was murdered.  I told him he was wrong.”  Doctor Hooper lifted the sheet back over the dead woman’s body, covering her from sight. 

“Jealousy.”  Sherlock stated.  Hooper’s lip curled.

“Wrong.” 

Heaving a great sigh, Sherlock waved towards the now covered body.  “Then by all means Doctor Hooper, enlighten me as to why you think you’re better than I in this particular case.”

Doctor Hooper smirked. “Care to wager?”

His brow rose in question.  “If I win? I get full reign of your labs for a day.”

“Done and if I win,”  Hooper grinned suddenly. “You take me, as your guest, to the Diogenes Club.”

“Holmes,”  John warned. 

“Done.”

Mary giggled.  This was going to be good.   The corner of Hooper’s mouth twitched upward. 

“The victim is a single woman recently reached adulthood who was murdered by a parent, possibly her father.  She’s never been married but she did have a lover.  Her parent discovered this after the fact and murdered her rather than live with the supposed shame of having a tainted, ruined daughter.”

“So she had a child?”  John asked. 

“No,”  Sherlock answered, “This woman has never given birth.” 

Hooper nodded in agreement.

“She miscarried, then.”  John said.  “Her father or mother found out and killed her.”

“No signs of a miscarriage.”  Hooper said.

“How do you know this?”  John asked. 

“Because your wife and I have an advantage that you two do not.  Intimate knowledge of the female form.”  Hooper pointed towards the lower part of the woman’s body.  “The victim discovered she was with child and went to an abortionist.  The autopsy I performed showed signs of the procedure being botched so the victim began bleeding again, possibly once she returned home.  That’s how the parent discovered what had happened and finished the job.”

John looked horrified.  “What sort of person would do that?”

“That is what Mr. Holmes and the Yard are paid to discover.”

“No, that’s not what I me-“

“Damn.”

The word was spoken so softly that Mary almost missed it.  Hooper, however, didn’t and a smug grin was directed towards Holmes. 

“I always miss something.  Well played Doctor Hooper.”

“High praise indeed Mr. Holmes.”

“It seems this one time, you were correct.  What day would suit best?”

“Holmes, you can’t be serious.”  John hissed.  Mary took another step towards her husband curious to see how he was about to stick his foot into his mouth once more.  Sherlock looked at him.

“Why not?  Hooper won fairly.”

“Because…”  he looked back towards the still closed door of the morgue before looking back towards the two, his voice lowering.  “Because she’s a woman.”

“Yes John, which I believe is the reason why she suggested that as her boon.”  He grinned suddenly.  “I must admit, it will be amusing to watch Doctor Hooper engage with the other men in the club, all of whom will be ignorant of whom they’re talking with.” 

  He looked back at Hooper.  “How about Thursday next?”

Hooper smiled, a true smile this time.  “I find my schedule is quite open that day.”

He held out his hand as if to shake and Hooper held her out.  Instead he took her hand and bowed over it, kissing the skin of her hand. 

“A pleasure, as always, Doctor Hooper.”

Mary giggled again, this time at the gob smacked look on her husband’s face. It seems as if he didn’t yet know about the…interactions between Mr. Holmes and Doctor Hooper, and it was always amusing to see these two interact while Doctor Hooper was in men’s clothing.  

She inclined her head. 

“Get out of my morgue, Mr. Holmes.”

With another bow and letting go of her hand, he took up his hat and spun on his heels. 

“Come along Watsons.”

Mary smirked as she said goodbye to Doctor Hooper and took her husband’s arm. 

“Come along John.  I’ll explain it to you later.”

She always had the best fun when she was out with her boys.


	6. I Once Was Lost

The sun was beginning to rise over his city, bathing the windows in hues of reds, oranges and yellows, when the car stopped in front of the flat.  He climbed from the car, buttoning his suit jacket as he looked up tentatively at one window in particular. 

Yesterday he did something unforgivable.  But he did it to save her life, or so he thought at the time.  His mind was exhausted; between the hours of never ending puzzles with horrific consequences should he fail, the emotional vivisection, the attempted suicide, the discovery of the death of his first best friend and the decades old unsolvable puzzle he had to solve in order to save John Watson’s life. Add to that the realization that his newly re-found baby sister was never going to be able to be released into society. She was mad.  She was criminally insane.  Despite all of that, she was his baby sister.  His recovered memories of her told him they’d been close once, or as close as she would allow anyone to be.  He was her favorite. 

Besides, they’d spent an entire evening together walking London and eating chips.  He loved her.  How could he not?

His tired mind accepting the fact that he loved Eurus pushed another section of his memory screaming to the surface so fast, he sat up in the back of the car on their way home, eyes wide and frantic. 

John had opened one tired eye and looked towards his friend. 

“What?  What is it?”

_Get to her get to her now!_  His overtired brain screamed at him, offering him no rest until this final task was completed.   _Fix this, you have to fix this.  You’ll lose her if this isn’t fixed immediately!_

“I have to go back to London.”

“We are, what’s wrong?”

“I have to fix it John.  I have to fix this.”  Was all he said, but in the end, John understood.  Reaching out, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. 

“You will Sherlock, you will.”

 

The minute he was positive that John and Rosie were safe, he ordered the driver to the East End the quickest route possible.  He was dirty, sweaty, sore, bleeding and exhausted but he couldn’t rest, couldn’t take care of anything until he fixed this.  He had to fix this first.

He ran up the stairs, taking two at a time until he stood in front of her door.  Inside, he could hear the loud hungry yowls of Toby followed by the soft shuffling of feet.  Taking a deep breath, not even thinking of what he was going to say, he knocked on the door.  He didn’t have a plan, no idea, no carefully thought out series of events based on past experiences and manipulated events. 

The flat went suddenly silent.  He knocked on the door again, knowing exactly what she was doing when he heard the soft creak of a floorboard.  She was softly creeping towards the door in order to peek through the peephole. 

“Go away.”  The response was quiet, devoid of emotion.  Her voice sounded thick, raw, as if she’d been crying all night.  Which she probably had; he had, after all, effectively ripped her heart from her chest still beating.

He knocked on the door again. 

“I can’t.”  he answered.  “Please let me in.  Please let me explain.”

No response.  He leaned his head against the door, his hand flat against the metal number of her flat. 

“Molly please.  I need to explain.  I need to talk to you.  It was never supposed to be over the phone.  I’m sorry for that.  I’m sorry you had to make me say the words first.  I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you into saying them.  I am not sorry I said them.”

The inside of the flat was silent.  He had a key, he could easily unlock the door and walk in, demanding that she listen to him, but there’d been more than enough of him demanding and her acquiescing.  It was time he did some waiting for a change. 

“Molly.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  But…I love you, I do.  And I will wait on your doorstep for however long it takes until you let me in to apologize and explain face to face.”

There was nothing for a moment, and then the sound of her locks disengaging.  He took a step back as the door opened and she stood in front of him; ratty pajamas and a dressing gown, hair up in a sloppy pony tail, eyes red and swollen, face blotchy.  To his tired eyes she was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in hours. 

She held up her mobile. 

“Mycroft asked politely that I listen to you.  Mycroft never asks anything.”  She opened the door further and stepped back.  He stepped into the flat as she shut the door behind him.  His heart was pounding, his overtired brain was still screaming at him to fix it before it became unrepairable.  From the edge of the kitchen, Toby stared at him, eyes unblinking.  Behind him, he heard her relock the door.  He turned around. 

She stood by the door, phone still in her hand, arms folded across her chest.  She looked tired and emotionally drained. 

“Say what you want to say and then get out.  I can’t do this anymore Sherlock, I’ve reached well past my limits of what I’m willing to put up with-“

He panicked.

He dropped to his knees before her, wrapping his arms around her waist.  She stumbled slightly, hands flying out to catch her balance.

“Forgive me,” he begged.  He once said he would never beg for anything but here he was, on his knees begging like a child, terrified beyond rational thought at her words.  He couldn’t lose her, she was everything good in his world, she kept him sane.  If she left him, he would be nothing.

“Forgive me,” he said again.  “I’m sorry I can’t lose you Molly I couldn’t bear it I love you please don’t leave me.”

He was babbling, he knew it, couldn’t seem to stop it.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to.  Everything didn’t have to always be carefully measured words weighted to convey the optimum response.  The words just spewed from his lips, without thought, without care.  Everything he’d thought, everything he’d felt, everything he’d tried to keep hidden, flowing out of his mouth in words that tripped over each other in their haste to be expelled. Repeating and never ending. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t mean for it to be this way I was going to tell you when this was all over please promise you won’t leave me I love you Molly I do I do I love you please don’t leave me.”

His face was wet, hot, but he didn’t care.  His arms tightened around her waist, terrified she would try to pry him off of her, his face buried in her stomach, the smell of her soap and laundry detergent in his nose.  He felt her sigh and then her fingers were in his hair, stroking his hair. 

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t send me away.  Please, I couldn’t bear it.  I love you Molly, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Her fingers tightened against his hair and suddenly she pulled away sharply.  His hands dropped to the floor, his head hanging low and his heart hurting.  Then she was on her knees in front of him, hands on his shoulders, pulling him up to look into his eyes. 

“Do you mean it?”

For the first time since he’d entered her flat, he saw the familiar spark of hope in her eyes. Which gave him hope.  With a trembling hand, he reached up to touch her face and caught her gaze firmly. 

“I love you.  If you are amiable, I want to be with you.  Exclusively and with everything those words entail.  That is, if you still feel the same?”

She didn’t speak, her eyes searched his face trying to find any small clue that he was deceiving her.  He’d always been able to fool everyone but her.  She had always been able to see right through him and at this moment, he wanted to be as transparent to her as possible.  He still held his hands against her face. 

“I love you Molly Hooper.  I love you.”

The light in her eyes shone with a suddenly almost blinding brightness and she smiled, her eyes growing moist. 

“You…you mean it.”  she breathed. 

“I mean it.  I love you.”

She let out a shaking breath before throwing her arms around his neck in a hug and burying her face against his neck, her tears wetting his shirt.  He held her tight against him as if he never wanted to let her go. 

“I love you.”  Her words were muffled against his neck but he heard them and his heart melted, his brain relaxed stopping it’s never ending mantra of  _fix this_

He held her tighter, his eyes closing, his body relaxing against her.  His body swayed tiredly, finally beginning to shut down from all the trauma of the previous day.  She pulled back and he held on tighter, thinking she was going to leave. 

She pulled him away from her and took his face in her hands.  He opened his eyes to look at her. 

“You look exhausted.  Do you want to take a shower and sleep?  We can talk later.”

“Will you stay with me?”

She smiled and nodded.  “Of course.”

“Okay.”  He moved to climb to his feet first, before helping her up.  His hand tightened on hers when she tried to lead him towards the bathroom. 

“Wait.”

She turned back to him and he could wait no longer.  Sliding his hands from hers, he brushed them against her cheeks, pulling her towards him and kissing her, his eyes falling closed as their lips touched.  Her arms held onto his shoulders and her body pressed against his. 

Afterwards, he would take a shower and sleep. 

After that, they would talk and he would tell her about his sister. 

Later, he would return to Baker Street and begin the arduous task of cleaning up his home and replacing everything he’s lost.

But for now…

For now…

He was found.

 

 


	7. First Meetings

The sounds of a violin echoed throughout the building as the door to 221B opened letting in an older couple.  The door to the flat on the main floor opened and Mrs. Hudson smiled as she spotted the couple. 

“Hello dears, do come in.  You’ve picked a lovely afternoon to come into town haven’t you?”

Violet Holmes smiled fondly at her youngest son’s landlady. 

“Hello Mrs. Hudson, It is, Vernet and I were just in town meeting some friends for lunch and thought we’d stop by and see if Sherlock was home.  I can hear by the sounds that he is.”

“He’s been at that for almost two hours now,” Mrs. Hudson looked up towards the open flat door on the second floor where the music originated.  “Honestly, I’m not sure how Molly handles it sometimes.”

Violet raised a curious eyebrow.  “Molly?  Who is this Molly?”

Mrs. Hudson merely smiled.  “You should go on up.”

The music stopped mid note and Sherlock’s voice could be heard on the main floor. 

“Mrs. Hudson!  Is it a client?”

“No dear!”  she yelled up.  “Go on up, I’ll bring up some tea.”

Sherlock was standing in his doorway, violin in one hand, bow in the other when they first caught sight of him.  His eyes widened a fraction in surprise before he smiled.    
“Mycroft didn’t tell me you were coming?”  he said as they reached the landing. 

“Mycroft didn’t know.”  Violet said as he leaned forwards and dutifully kissed his mother’s cheek.  “We had lunch with some friends and thought we’d stop by for a visit.  It sounds as if you’re in between cases.”

He retreated back into the flat, heading towards the window where his music stand was, his parents following him in.  Violet was talking mindlessly about their lunch as Vernet quietly followed.  His footsteps stopped as he caught sight of someone in the kitchen. 

“Sherlock?”  he asked.  Sherlock turned to looked at his father and his mother stopped in mid-sentence, looking first at her husband and then towards the kitchen.  Sherlock looked uncomfortable. 

“Mrs. Hudson tells us you’ve been annoying your neighbor.”  Violet said. 

“I don’t think she’s a neighbor,”  Vernet answered still looking at person in the kitchen.  He took a couple of steps towards the open door of the kitchen intent on seeing who this mystery person was.  He caught sight of a woman in front of the kitchen sink doing dishes.  Sherlock smoothly stepped in front of the kitchen before he could go any further in, a look of abashment on his face. 

“Why don’t we have a seat, there’s um…something I need to tell you.”

“Would it have anything to do with the woman in the kitchen doing your dishes?” his father asked looking amused. 

“Come sit down.”

As if on cue, Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray.  “I’ve brought up some tea.  I had some biscuits on hand also.”  She set the tray down on the table in front of the couch.  “Molly dear, I’ve brought tea.” 

“She has her earphones in Mrs. Hudson, she couldn’t hear a gunshot at the moment.”

“I’ll just go get her.” 

“Thank you.”  He looked nervously to his parents.  His mother was already pouring tea.  She took her cup and sat back with a curious smile.  In fact, they both looked amused and curious.  “You have questions?”

“Oh I’m sure we will once you’ve told us what you’ve been up to.”  His mother retorted with barely contained mirth.

“Well, I’ve recently…well not recently, we’ve been…that is to say, I’ve known her for…no, that’s not right.”

Molly’s hesitant voice from the kitchen saved him.  “Sherlock?”  He almost sagged in relief before turning and hurrying towards the kitchen.  Vernet leaned towards his wife. 

“Do you think he’ll ever get around to telling us who she is?”

She shushed him good naturedly as Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, clasping the hand of a terrified looking woman in an oversized tee shirt and tights.  Her hair was up in a sloppy bun that she was desperately trying to fix with her free hand.  He stopped in front of the table. 

“Mummy, Dad, this is my Molly.”

His mother’s eyebrow rose questioningly.  “Yours dear?”

“Yes.”  He straightened, his grip tightening on Molly’s hand.  “Molly is my…well, we’re…”  He looked to her, lost. 

“We’re involved.”  She cleared her throat and smiled.  “Hello.  I’m Molly Hooper.  I apologize for my outfit, Sherlock didn’t tell me you were coming by today.”

“He didn’t know dear.”  Violet put down her cup and stood up.  She skirted around the table and waved her son off the brunette woman before pulling her into a hug.  “It is very nice to meet you Molly.”  She leaned back to look at Molly, her hands still on her shoulders.  “Tell me, are you and my son co-habituating?”

“Mummy!”  Sherlock sounded horrified.  He pulled his phone out and began texting frantically.  Molly hid a smile, blushing. 

“Yes.  We are.”

“Oh I’m so happy he’s finally found someone!”  she pulled the bewildered Molly into another hug.  “Welcome to the family, dear.  Do try not to run screaming into the night.  Vernet, come give your son’s companion a hug.”

“I’ll just greet her from here Dear,”  he chuckled.  “It looks as if you have things well in hand.”

Sherlock made a nose of protest and shot off another text before sliding  the phone back into his pocket.  “Mycroft refuses to call in an airstrike.” He muttered as he tried to tug Molly from his mother’s grasp.    Violet let go of the woman and sat down. 

“Come sit dear and tell us all about how you managed to get my son to admit he has feeling for anyone.”  She teased.  Sherlock gave her a dark look. 

“I didn’t do anything really.”  Molly answered.  Sherlock pulled the yellow chair onto the other side of the table and she smiled up at him as she took the proffered seat.  “It’s actually all his sister’s fault.”

“Sherlock, I forbid you to ever let this woman go.”  Vernet suddenly said.  “If she’s met all three of you and still loves you, then she’s a rare woman and you would do well to keep her as close to you as you can.”

In a rare expression of sentiment that neither parent had seen in a long time, Sherlock’s gaze softened and he smiled down at the woman in the chair.  He bent over and kissed her temple. 

“I am well aware Dad.”  He answered as he straightened.

Violet Holmes grinned happily.  Maybe there was hope for grandchildren after all.

 

 


End file.
